An E/C story? Yeah, I know, I'm surprised too. This is a post-WWI AU with NO influenza pandemic because I just can't handle talking about pandemics right now.

This is a WIP and I've not finished it just yet. I have a few chapters written, so there will be regular updates for about four weeks, but after that I'm not sure.

For Christina, because you helped me find my voice, my strength, my confidence, my SELF again. Thank you, friend, for never failing to see the best in me, even when I couldn't.

Prologue - The Sea

1917

Christine de Chagny tilted her face towards the sun's rays, closing her eyes with a contented sigh. It had been so long since she had stood on the shore, far too long…

She screamed as someone wrapped their arms around her stomach and lifted her into the air, spinning them both around until she was dizzy. "Stop scaring me," she chided her husband, laughing with him even as she slapped his shoulder.

Raoul's blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he kissed her nose. "But it's so much fun!" He ran towards the water, his feet sure and steady even over the slippery rocks, until he was ankle-deep amidst the crashing waves. Only then did he release her, allowing her to slide down his body until Christine was standing in the sea too.

"I never want today to end," Christine whispered, grinning up at Raoul. Grabbing his hand, she guided him further from the shore, until the cold water came up to her waist, the fabric of her dress swirling around her legs. "It's been perfect."

"You're perfect." Raoul brushed his mouth against hers, his lips tasting of salt and lemon candy. Threading her fingers through her husband's dark blond hair, Christine pulled him closer, their bodies melting together as a lazy warmth filled her chest.

For a few blissful moments they were the only two people on this stretch of beach, the only two people in the world, everything and everyone else fading from Christine's mind as she clung to the man she loved more than life itself.

And then he was gone.

"No." Christine's eyes flew open once she realized that her arms were empty, but it was too late. She stood alone in the sea, the freezing water sending unseen currents to tug at her ankles, urging her under.

"No," she gasped again, struggling to maintain her footing, even as she saw the ship looming on the horizon. She knew that ship; she had seen it only once in real life, but it haunted her dreams with frightening regularity.

La Provence, an ocean liner that had been converted into a ship that transported troops.

La Provence, a relatively safe assignment for the heir of a distinguished family.

La Provence, a promising target for a German U-boat lurking in the waters of Greece.

La Provence, a tomb for a thousand men, including her beloved Raoul.

"Please no," she begged as she stumbled and fell, her knee slamming hard against a rock hidden from view as she was submerged beneath the water. Christine struggled to regain her footing, taking a staggering step and trying to brace herself against the increasingly violent waves that were crashing against her shivering body. "Please."

But there was nothing she could do except watch as an explosion enveloped the La Provence in flame, the ship listing drunkenly as Christine tripped once more. "No." The sea rose higher and higher, its frigid fingers caressing her neck, her hair, until she was drowning, just as her husband had...

Christine sat up in bed with a start, her fingers clawing at her throat in sheer panic as she fought for breath. Her cheeks were damp, and for a long, disorienting moment, Christine wasn't sure if it was due to her own tears or seawater.

Within a minute or two Christine was aware that she had been ensnared in a horrible dream, just like so many other times before. She wasn't anywhere near the sea and hadn't been for over two years, not since Raoul's last furlough from the Navy.

Raoul…

A half-stifled sob escaped from her lips as she remembered that he was dead, as her heart broke anew for the man who had loved the ocean and had ultimately been claimed by it. Christine wanted to wallow in her misery, to spend countless hours sobbing into her pillows like she had so often done after the news of his death had reached her, to weep until her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen shut.

But she couldn't allow herself to do that once more, no matter how tempting. She couldn't lose herself again. Georges needed her; she must remember that.

Blindly swiping her foot across the rug until her toes found her slippers, she managed to slide them on before shuffling quietly into the room that adjoined hers.

Her son's hands were clutching his stuffed dog tightly even in sleep, and Christine smiled down at him before her fingers stroked his soft blond hair. Georges was her little miracle, conceived during Raoul's final furlough, a piece of her husband that the sea and the war had not managed to steal from her. He was one of the two reasons why she was still alive, why she had survived those desolate months following Raoul's death.

The other reason was her art.

Closing the door as softly as she could, Christine crept through the hallway and down the back stairs until she was standing outside, deeply inhaling the cold air that promised that rain would soon be on its way. She could see her studio in the distance, its vague outline comforting and solid as it guarded the far gardens.

The stone cottage had once belonged to the caretaker of the grounds, back when servants still lived on the estate. Now Philippe employed a couple of people who lived in the nearby city of Rouen who returned to their own homes at night, and the cottage had been long abandoned when Christine had joined the de Chagnys at their country estate after Raoul's death. She'd seen its promise almost immediately, even though her brother-in-law had tried his best to convince her to take one of the rooms in the great house as her studio instead.

It lacked electricity and the roof leaked a little when it rained particularly hard, but the forgotten cottage was a second home to her. It was there that Christine could lose herself in her painting, where she could leave Georges with his aunt or uncle and just focus on her own feelings, depressing as they often were, for a while. There, in that two room building, Christine could shape the world into what she wanted it to be and forget for a few hours how the world truly was.

In that cottage, Christine was allowed to immerse herself in whatever fantasy her mind created. Raoul could still be alive. The war could be far away. Georges could meet his father. Her own papa could hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. The only limit was her imagination.

If only the rest of life worked that way, Christine thought to herself as she stared out at the darkness. If only it was all that simple.